Regulars

There is a woman who comes into my store on a daily basis, sometimes several times a day. She walks in quietly, her long blonde hair hanging around her face and her unique clothing setting her apart from the crowd, and goes over to our coffee pot. She grabs one of the small styrofoam cups we offer, fills it with powdered cream and sugar, and pours herself a cup of coffee. Usually she checks to see if we still have a filter in the machine, and empties it for us. She's very polite. As she walks around our stain section (I work for Sherwin-Williams), she quietly glances at our products and then disappears into our bathroom where she begins to take her shower.

Why? Because she's homeless. She's homeless and we're one of the few stores in the area that do not have the interest in throwing her out of our store. Why would we? She doesn't create any problems, she's very polite, she doesn't bother anyone, and it's freezing outside. Fifteen to twenty minutes later she reappears from the bathroom and we pretend to not have noticed what's she has had to do. I'm sure she knows we ignore it, and I'm sure she appreciates the sentiment. Her face has a layer of foundation on it now that is two times lighter than her complexion, but she feels beautiful, and that's all that matters. She smiles in our direction and whispers something inaudible about how she has "memorized what stores are open and when" and then walks around the store looking at our products some more. We know she can't buy anything, and she's aware that she can't buy anything, but for another five or ten minutes she gets to feel "normal."

After filling up her cup of coffee one more time, she heads down the road towards the highway overpass I drive under everyday. I always wonder if that is where she lives, or if she is just visiting a friend. Then I wonder about him; the curly haired man we see once a week. He wears a backpack like he has just gotten back from a hiking trip in the woods, and ties a bandanna around his head to maintain its glory. His face is covered in stubble that slightly hides the dirt on his face, but he walks with a certain stride that shows that "today is going to be a good day." As he walked into the store, he immediately goes to the wallpaper books and pulls out his favorites. We all say hello as he comes in, and he nods and ducks his head "so as not to be a burden."

I've gotten into the habit of going over and asking how he is doing, seeing if maybe he would like some coffee. He always declines, but he takes a deep breath and smiles when he recognizes that he isn't being asked to leave. A couple of months ago I had a bit more of a conversation with him. Aside from the normal hellos, and explanations that "he's an artist and he looks at these books because the patterns are so amazing and beautiful and they inspire him when he is painting," I hear a sad story that he feels comfortable enough with sharing.

"You're all so nice," he quietly says. "So much nicer than those people down the road." I lower my brows and frown in a questioning manner.

"Oh yeah? Which people?" I ask.

"That other paint store. The ones down there," he answers, pointing to the south.

"Spectrum?" I question.

"Yes. They never let me look. They always tell me to leave. I can't stay in their store. I'm an artist, you know? I look at these books because they inspire me," he goes on. I'm not sure what to say. What am I supposed to say?

"Well, I'm glad to hear that you think we're nice. Do you want some coffee?" I ask.

"No, thanks. I just want to look. These inspire me," he responds. He never accepts coffee. He just wants to look. He just wants to look because for that short period of time he is inspired. Inspired by something that isn't judgmental, rude, and determined to make him feel worthless.